


Lovely, bright and tall. (Fight and die for us all.)

by Alexander_Slamilton



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex gets shot, Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, George is a worried father, Hurt/Comfort, LMAO, Lafayette is there to help, M/M, graphic injury description, john is worried, of course, references to illiad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 21:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8595223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Slamilton/pseuds/Alexander_Slamilton
Summary: “Mingle our ashes together so that we may be together for eternity.”  - Achilles (Homer's Iliad) " It was a moment of purest clarity. Nothing in John’s life could compare to what he felt in that moment. Those impossible seconds. The brush of lips against lips, mingling of breaths and souls, the heady joy of love and trust. Skin against skin. A few seconds of peace in the middle of a war."





	

 

Grapeshot fired at them, fast and unforgiving, spattering the ground with blood of those less fortunate. Hamilton ducked behind his old gun, spying Laurens riding towards the enemy, his sword in hand; cutting down men like toy soldiers, he shook his head and vowed to keep an eye on his reckless friend. He patted the gun, like it were a woman, stroking his fingers down the tarnished bronze feeling the heat beneath the pads of his fingers. Battled raged around him in a myriad of blood, chaos, and death, he could practically smell it; the sharp rancid smell curled into his nostrils. 

 

They are never going to win this, not with the full might of the British army turning on them. Redcoat after redcoat could be seen filing over the hill, firing on them with muskets. The British guns are turning too, soon enough they will be outgunned as well as outmanned. Yet no one had ordered them to retreat, at least Alexander had not heard anyone call retreat; not to mention the fact that if someone did they would be going against Washington’s orders. Why, then, Alexander thought, were men breaking the lines and turning tale.

 

“Lee’s made a hash of it, he’s calling retreat in to the woods!” Benjamin Tallmadge cried, riding up to Hamilton.

 

“Ride ahead, try and stall him enough so Washington does not arrive in time to see him running away,” Alexander looked up at Tallmadge.

 

“Right,” Benjamin smiled and nodded his assent.

 

“Can you tell your Brewster to find me another horse if possible?” Hamilton shouted over the gunfire.

 

“Certainly, he’ll only nick one off the British though,” Tallmadge grinned. 

 

“Good enough, thanks, Tallmadge,” Hamilton slapped Benjamin’s horse on the rump, sending it galloping off after Lee.

 

He turned back to his old gun, not wanting to leave it behind, it had accompanied him through the whole war. It was from his time as an artillery commander in the battle of Harlem Heights back in ’76. He looked to where his horse lay, covered in blood, it had run through the beast’s mane, clotting and matting the fine chestnut hair. He sighed and made his way over to the animal, running a finger over its flank before taking the saddle off it as Lieutenant Brewster trotted up to to him, leading a horse. 

 

“Benny Boy said you wanted another horse,” he grinned.

 

“You would do well to address your commanding officer with some respect, Brewster,” Hamilton looked up, squinting against the bright sunlight. 

 

“Yes, well, here’s the horse, he never seems to mind my nicknames though,” Brewster dropped the reins down, Hamilton seized them and swung himself up into the saddle. Testing the fine leather saddle out by shifting around he also made sure the horse would cooperate with him. He wriggled and squeezed his heels experimentally, the horse trotted briskly, ears pointing forward. He smiled and squeezed his heels harder, the horse moved off the field at speed, he galloped towards the trees following the fleeing men. 

 

The trees provided some cover, though the British were still shooting at them, grape shot blew the trees apart. Up a head, not too far down the narrow path that lead in to the woods, Hamilton could see Washington. The General was sitting proud and up right on his horse. Charles Lee lead a column of men towards the General. Washington’s face turned dark and stormy, his eyebrows rising as he saw the disgraced Lee. Hamilton inwardly smiled, the man deserved whatever The General saw fit. He moved up the column, breathing out a sigh of relief when he saw Laurens next to Washington. 

 

“Sir,” he said in greeting, saluting his commander. 

 

“Hamilton,” Washington regarded him, his eyes scanning Hamilton for injury, “perhaps you will be able to explain what the hell went wrong.”

 

“Certainly, Sir, would you like a verbal or a written report?” Hamilton nodded.

 

“A verbal report, right now, will be fine son,” Washington said. 

 

“Of course, your Excellency,” Hamilton took a deep breath and started to explain Lee’s cowardice. “Then Major Tallmadge explained to General Lee that we should form a defensive line. Lee refused his advice and insisted that we retreat, Sir.” 

 

Washington had sat through Hamilton’s report stony faced, though Hamilton had spent enough time with the General to know when he was most displeased. Hamilton could see his commander grinding his teeth, and how his eyes turned dangerously cold. 

 

“And why, General Lee did you not see it fit to form a defensive line? When that is, unless I am mistaken, the proper practice?” 

 

“I thought that it would cause more harm than good, your Excellency,” Lee said, bowing his head.

 

“Oh, I see, then why not send a scout to inform me to move faster?” Washington’s tone was dangerous, low and cutting, it seemed to sever Lee’s brain from his mouth. The other general was flustered, blushing and fidgeting.

 

“I did not think-“

 

“No. No you did not. To the rear, Lee,” Washington did not shout. He hardly even looked at Lee. 

 

“I… Yes. Your Excellency,” Lee at least had the decency to bow his head as he spurred his horse towards the rear lines. His men joining Washington’s troops. Hamilton stayed by his General’s side.

 

“Laurens, inform Major General Lafayette that he will take command of the assault. We can hope the damage is not yet done. Whilst _I_ form a defensive line,” Washington said. 

 

“Yessir,” John winked at Alex, subtly, wheeling his horse around in the direction of Lafayette. 

 

The line held, thank goodness, though it seemed to Alexander that it might not have done without Lafayette in command. The frenchman was a wonder on the battlefield, expertly corralling the troops, so as to pull a stalemate from the black maw of loss. Gun smoke covered the battlefield, cloaking it from Alexander’s eyes so he could not keep track of his Laurens, though still he searched frantically scanning the men; hoping that the bodies he clambered over were not dear to him. The only thing he could hear over the sound of canon fire was screams and yells. He watched as men fell, more and more, still it seemed that they would loose. 

 

Finally it was over. The heat of battle fled from him and he almost fell off his horse. He felt worse than jelly, he had no strength left in him. He looked down, his breeches were stained red, a sharp pain bolted through his leg.

 

“Alexander!” The words echoed in his head, though they no longer held meaning for him, he felt himself being lifted from his horse and into strong warm arms. 

 

“Warm,” he mumbled, “I am so tired.” 

 

“Do not sleep, my dear friend, you must not,” words poured forth from the man holding him, though Alex heard them as though through a pane of glass. 

 

“I can’t,” he yawned, feeling sleep drag him down to the darkness. Pulling the black over his head, like a tide, like water, choking him. Filling his lungs. He gasped, pulling air into him, letting it fill him. 

 

“Alexander, stop writhing, I won’t be able to hold you,” Alexander opened his eyes, blinking as the sun filled his vision with light. A lock of hair tumbled over John’s shoulder from where it had come out of his queue. Alexander reached up to take it in his fingers. 

 

“John, my Laurens, I should have known you’d come to save me,” Alexander said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

 

“I will always be where you need me,” John smiled down at him, “how could I resist you?” 

 

John set him down on a bed in the medic’s tent, and sleep finally dragged him down, to the only place where he knew John could not follow him. Though he wished he could, only a phantom of his friend followed him into the darkness. 

 

He woke to pain, it was night, at least there was no light in the tent. He screamed until his throat would make no more sound, as blinding pain filled his very soul. His leg was on fire, it had to be, else he was imagining the burning pain that worked its way up his leg from his ankle to his knee. The doctor ran in, and pressed something to his mouth and nose, he breathed it in deeply and sleep took him once more. 

 

“Alexander, my Alexander,” the words filtered through the veil, brining him back to consciousness. 

 

“How long?” He could barely speak, the words grated against his dry throat painfully. 

 

“A week.”

 

“A week?”

 

“Aye, we feared you would not wake again,” John said, stroking a hand through his matted, greasy hair. “Your life hung on a thread, once it teetered so close to the edge, I thought I would ne’er see your eyes open.” 

 

“I was so close to death?” 

 

“Yes,” John whispered, choking, “the doctor called the priest, on Thursday.” 

 

“Thank God, I am alive,” Alexander sighed.

 

“Thank God,” John echoed. 

 

***

_Laurens' point of view._

 

They had held. Lafayette had salvaged something from Lee’s wreckage, John breathed out a sigh of relief. They neither gained nor lost any land. The battle was not lost. It would be okay. He searched out Alexander, his eyes scanning the other officers sitting on their horses in their blue and buff. Alex’s skin was pale, its usual colour absent, his eyes were glassy. John was moving before he had time to breath, though Alexander was pitching forward, falling to the ground. John caught him before he could hit the floor. 

 

“Alexander!” John shouted, desperately pulling Alex to his chest; cradling him like a babe. 

 

He could not hear what Alexander said, the words were too slurred, too quiet in the post battle confusion.

 

“Do not sleep, my dear friend, you must not,” John croaked, gripping Alex tight and holding him as if to keep him awake. 

 

All of a sudden, as though possessed by the devil, Alexander began to writhe and scream. He gasped and his whole body went stiff, words tumbled out of his mouth as he continued to cry and sob and beg. 

 

“No, no, no, please, no please, not the water.” He moaned and writhed in John’s arms, muscles tensing and intending unconsciously. 

 

“God,” John nearly sobbed as he fought his way to Washington. 

 

The General took one look at John, hair wild from battle, covered in Alex’s blood and waved him off to the medic’s tent. The red blood stood out against the blue and white of his uniform, it dripped steadily down Alex’s leg and onto John’s breeches. His face was determined, his arms were shaking from holding Alex’s dead weight though he still held him. Alexander’s face was tucked into John’s chest, he could feel his friend breathing, feel the steady thump of his heart, though it was the only sign Alex gave of being alive. 

 

The medic’s tent was heaving with men after the battle, though they all parted when John pushed through them. Alexander limp and unconscious in his arms, his friend’s eyes closed completely when he laid him on the cot. His head lolled back on the pillow and blood still streamed from the bullet wound in his knee. 

 

“Stay with me Alexander, you must stay with me,” John pleaded, gripping Alex’s hand tightly in his own. 

 

The tears, once they started to fall, were unstoppable as though a dam had been opened and the flood was pouring out. Still he sat by Alex’s side as the doctor came and looked over him. 

 

“The bullet has thankfully done no severe damage to his knee. If he lives he will walk, the next day will be his true test.”

 

“If he lives?” John whispered.

 

“He is not awake. He has slipped into a deep sleep, some do not wake from it,” the doctor explained, his eyes flicking down to where John held Alexander’s hand. 

 

John watched Alexander’s chest rise and fall, as the sun slipped below the horizon, and still he did not wake. Alexander’s eyes that were so captivating, clever and bright, so _alive,_ were hidden from him as though he were already dead. John imagined never seeing Alex smile, never hearing his laugh again, never hearing him sing. He rested his head upon Alexander’s chest, hearing the heart beneath the layers of skin and bone and blood thump on. Hours passed and still Alexander did not wake. 

 

“We need to take the bullet out of his leg, I have delayed long enough,” the doctor said. 

 

“If you must,” John stood to leave but the doctor grabbed hold of his arm. 

 

“No, I would ask you to stay, sir,” the doctor looked at him, “my assistant is unavailable and I would be grateful for the extra pair of hands.” 

 

“Surely that would not be wise, I am educated in law, not medicine,” John glanced at the instruments the doctor was gathering, setting them beside Alexander’s bed. 

 

“Sir, four pairs of hands are far better for this than two, even if one pair is new,” the doctor smiled briefly. 

 

“Very well,” John sighed, coming around to the other side of the bed. 

 

“If you could hold the leg still, that is all, just keep it from moving,” the doctor pulled out a large pair of tweezers. “When I ask you to, hold these at the angle I have them at. It is of the utmost importance that you do not move them, else he will bleed out.” 

 

“Yessir,” John nodded, gripping Alex’s leg. 

 

It went well up until the point where Alex woke, his eyes wide with pain and panic. He screamed as the doctor pulled the bullet from his flesh. 

 

“Take these,” the doctor shoved the tweezers in to John’s hands, “remember, do not move them.” 

 

Blood flowed from the wound freely now, John could not think how much Alexander had lost. All he could think of was hold the tweezers and keeping his hand still. He watched his friend’s face, studying it, committing it to memory. He memorised each freckle and imperfection, each hair on Alex’s head, as though he would never see it again. 

 

The doctor, whose name he later found out to be Robert, held a cloth to Alexander’s nose and mouth. As he breathed in, his body became limp and he fell back asleep. The tent was hot and dark, candles burning low in their holders, wax dripping on to the floor creating white puddles that stretched along the wood. The canvas flapped slightly in the wind, rustling against the wood pillars. 

 

Alexander slept fitfully, muttering and whimpering as he writhed on the cot. His hands grasped at nothing, they clenched and unclenched around air reaching for something that wasn’t there. Sweat beaded across his fever-red brow, glistening rivers tracked their way down the contours of his face. His mouth gasped for air that would not quench his need for something, _anything,_ cool. 

 

“Do not go, do not leave me here,” he whispered as Alexander’s eyes rolled around in his skull, and whimpers left his mouth. 

 

***

 

“John?” The word was so quiet John almost missed it. Alexander’s eyes flickered, somewhere between sleeping and waking. 

 

“Alexander, thank God,” John pressed a hand to Alex’s forehead, feeling the sweaty skin under his fingers. He pressed a water soaked cloth against Alex’s skin. “Thank you, thank you.”

 

“John, I’m not dead?” Alexander croaked, grasping John’s wrist.

 

“No, no you are very much alive,” John felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

 

Alexander croaked out a laugh, even as it seemed sleep would claim him once more. His eyes flickered shut and a sigh slipped out of his mouth as his breathing slowed and deepened. His grip on John’s wrist slackened and faded away, his hand fell back on the bed. Alexander was deathly pale, his eyes had great black shadows beneath them, marring the otherwise perfect skin. John ran his finger down Alex’s sweat soaked cheek, he sighed and tucked the blankets around his friend, in the hopes his fever would break.

 

Alexander woke twice in the next few days, though he was hardly conscious, he mumbled something about his mother and cried out for ‘James’. John had to hold him down on more than one occasion, in order to stop him hurting himself as he writhed on the small cot. His fever had not broken, his leg was black and red with bruising, stark against the unhealthy pallor of his skin. John felt like sobbing every time he looked at his friend, though he forced himself to stay strong. 

 

“His condition is worsening. I fear he will not see out the night, should I call for the priest?” The doctor said, feeling Alex’s forehead.

 

“I erm, I do not know, I suppose so,” John had no idea whether or not Alexander was even christian, though he supposed he must be. He had a lump in his throat but kept his face passive in front of the doctor. After the man had left, though, John broke. His strength failed him and he gripped on to the front of Alex’s damp shirt. “You are not to die. I forbid it,” he sobbed, twining his fingers round the ties. 

 

General Washington came into the tent, John looked up, he didn't have the energy to stand, so he saluted weakly from his chair. Washington’s face changed from impassive and commanding to horrified, he broke his stride when he caught sight of Alexander. John knew the General cared for Alex, though he did not think it to be anything more than the care of a commander for his men. Though the expression on Washington’s face belayed that thought.

 

“Dear God, Lieutenant, whatever has happened?” Washington knew that Alexander had been shot, though John supposed he had not been keeping anyone up to date on his condition, an unfortunate side effect of his having practically lived in the medic’s tent for the past few days.

 

“His leg, the wound festered; he got a fever. The doctor’s gone to get a priest, sir,” John chocked on the words, they stuck in his throat like stale bread. 

 

“A priest? I was not informed that his condition was so bad. I will go a talk to the doctor, see if there’s nothing to be done,” Washington turned to go.

 

“Forgive me, sir, but I do not think there is anything we can do or hope for. Simply that he makes it through tonight.”

 

“Then I will stay with him. You must go to bed,” Washington held up a hand to silence John even as he opened his mouth to refuse. “That is an order, Lieutenant, I know you are as brothers, but I will not have two of my aides incapacitated any longer. I need you fit in oder to perform your duties. You have my word that if anything happens, you will know of it.” 

 

“I- Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” John bowed out of the tent, leaving Washington sitting by Alexander’s side.

 

He walked numbly to their shared quarters, the biting wind left no impression on him; as though he walked through death itself, he felt nothing. Not the ground under his boots, nor the cool air on his face, nor the rain as it started to fall. He was oblivious to the other aides, who sat around the fire in the grate, even as they raised their voices in greeting. He ignored them and instead climbed the narrow wood stairs to the room that he and Alex inhabited. 

 

He sat on the narrow cot that he’d not slept in for three days and breathed in the stale scent of a room that had laid abandoned too long. Then, without so much as a warning, the door was flung open and Lafayette flew inside. 

 

“Laurens, I thought both you and Alexander to be dead or worse when you did not appear after the battle. You should have found me, I feared for you,” Lafayette sat next to John, who breathed in the comforting; familiar smell of his friend.

 

“I could not leave Alex. You have my sincerest apologies that I worried you, but I could not leave him alone,” John leaned in to the hug he was ensconced in, feeling Lafayette’s warmth seep in to his starved bones. 

 

“It is nothing, you are alive and safe, and Alexander? How fares he?” Lafayette refused to let John go, even when he tried to wiggle out of his arms, John was secretly grateful for the contact. 

 

“The doctor called the priest, last I was there,” John croaked, burying his face into Lafayette’s chest. “They do not believe he will last out tonight.” 

 

Lafayette was silent, save for an intake of breath. He rested his cheek atop John’s head, stroking his long fingers through John’s matted hair. 

 

“I do not believe our Alexander, would let something so trivial as a bullet stop him in his mission for glory,” Lafayette chuckled slightly, though it sounded hollow. 

 

“I hope you are right,” John yawned, sleep rushed at him, black and unavoidable and he did not dream. 

 

He awoke to bright sunlight streaming in through the windows, the sounds of birds filtered in through the glass. Lafayette was still asleep, curled up against the wall like a cat, he looked so young as he snuffled slightly, burrowing further into the lump pillow; John was struck with the realisation that at Lafayette’s age he’d been running around London getting drunk with his friends, not fighting a war. 

 

There was thumping on the door, shattering any illusion of peace John had conjured in his brain. He moaned and rolled over. 

 

“Lieutenant?” The voice was muffled as it bled through the wood, though it was also unmistakably Washington’s.

 

“Shit. Sir?” John called, standing up and looking ready, as he heard the door open, he flicked the blankets so Lafayette was covered. 

 

“Lieutenant Hamilton is semi-conscious and asking for you,” Washington, pushed the door fully open, “Have you, perchance, seen Major General Lafayette this morning?” The General’s eyes flickered to the bed, and the lump that was Lafayette.

 

“Ah, no, sir. I have not left my rooms. I err, I had some business-“

 

“Very well, thank you.” Washington turned to leave, “and Laurens?”

 

“Yessir?”

 

“With Hamilton awake and on his way to recovery, I hope I can expect to restore you to full duties. At least by the end of this week, at least,” Washington smiled slightly, almost imperceptibly and left the room. “If, mayhaps, you see the Major General could you inform him that I am of need of his presence.” 

 

“Yessir,” John nodded, wincing as Washington’s eyes swept over the lump again, he waited until he could hear Washington’s boots on the stairs before he tore the blankets off Lafayette. He shook Lafayette’s shoulder until the other man groaned and wrinkled his nose. 

 

“What time is it?”

 

“After eight. Washington is looking for you; I swear he knew you were under there,” John swatted Lafayette’s shoulder again.

 

“Ah well, I suppose it is time for work. I will endeavour to see our Alexander today, tell him so,” Lafayette said, patting John on the arm, before he swept out of the room as flamboyantly as he had entered it six hours earlier. Seemingly not having a care for he somewhat dishevelled state. 

 

“I will,” John called after the Major General. 

 

John sighed; he scrubbed his hands over his eyes, they were itchy with ill-rest. He desperately wanted to go back to bed, but he could almost feel Alexander’s call to him. There was a sharp ache in his back and shoulders, but he paid it no mind as he almost ran down the stairs to the medic’s tent. The morning in camp was cold and a heavy mist had settled upon the ground, obscuring the fallen leaves and mud. Men struggled about with the daily grind, shouting and greeting their peers as they moved about. A sense of unease settled over John as he walked through it, it felt like the peace they were in currently would shatter at the barest touch like calm water just waiting for Poseidon’s wrath. 

 

He reached the medic’s tent, the sense of unease hovering over him as he ducked through the white flaps. There had been no other house near enough to build a field hospital, so the medic had reluctantly ordered a large white tent set up for the injured, and diseased men. The smell of sickness hit his nose like a brick to the face, he reeled backwards before pressing on. A cacophony of death assaulted his ears, but he grit his teeth and moved into the officer’s section. 

 

“Lauren est-ce toi?” Alexander mumbled, reaching out and taking John’s hand in his own. 

“Oui c’est moi, mais, souviens toujours Anglais, non?” John scolded gently, stroking his fingers lightly across Alex’s brow, brushing a few wayward hairs out of the other’s eyes. 

 

“Je suis désolé, mon cher, I forgot our pact,” Alex’s voice was barely a whisper; he spoke with more of an accent than John had ever heard. 

 

“Mon cher?” John’s eyebrows rose, his hand froze in place, but he didn't move backwards. 

 

“Oui, mon cher, mon coeur, mon frère, mon amour,” Alexander said, yawning, “I want to sleep, but the surgeon said not to, please can I sleep again?” 

 

“If the surgeon said not to, then no, you must stay awake,” John’s hand returned to stroking as Alex sighed and snuffled in the blankets. 

 

“Ah, good, the General sent you to take him back to the head quarters, did he?” A medic said, stepping in to the room. 

 

“Aye, sir, if you think that is the best,” John nodded.

 

“The headquarters is warmer than it is here, and we need the bed,” the medic shrugged.

 

“Indeed, have you instruction for his care taking?” John asked. 

 

“I do, he must be bathed, if you can manage it. Quite frankly, he stinks; and we’ve only been able to wash the bad leg, nowhere else. It would be unwise for the leg to go into the water; so he may need some help, it would be better done today while he feels no pain. Though if he bathed on his own, he’d likely drown even in two inches of water,” the medic nodded to Alexander, who was currently staring at a patch of sunlight that had managed to slip past a small gap in the tent flaps.

 

“Right, thank you,” John grimaced as he pulled Alexander up. 

 

“Good luck, Lieutenant Colonel, if there’s anything amiss then do not hesitate to call for me,” the medic smiled slightly and bowed out of the tent. 

 

“Thank you,” John repeated as he strained to carry Alexander’s dead weight as he leaned on John to keep his feet. 

 

“John? Are we going home?” Alex mumbled, his words slurring together, “I can’t feel my leg, John.” 

 

“That’s the laudanum, nothing to worry about, actually its a good thing you can’t feel the leg,” John stroked his hand through Alexander’s hair. “Come, we’re going home.” John shouldered Alexander a little more comfortably and they hobbled out the medic’s tent together. 

 

***

 

Alexander’s leg got better, gradually, though he still was under strict orders not to get it wet; so he still had to be helped when it came to washing his hair. He grew more and more frustrated each day he had to hobble through life, restricted to the barest of desk work. Only John and Lafayette were really able to talk to him, he found the other men to be irritating and so he snapped and growled at them when they came close. 

 

“Alex, do you want to bathe now, or tomorrow morning?” John poked his head round into the room he shared with Hamilton. 

 

“Why do I have to bathe at all?” Alexander pouted, but even as he said the words, he wince as a bolt of pain shot up his thigh. 

 

“The surgeon said it would help with the blood poisoning you had remember? You know, when you almost _died,_ ” John didn't raise his voice, but Alex could tell he was upset. 

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Alex said, softly, hanging his head. 

 

“No, I know, its just I still haven’t come to terms with how close we were to losing you. I don’t know what I would do if we had lost you. You mean more to me than you know,” John walked over to Alex, and pulled him into his arms. “I still see you, lying in that cot, blood all over; a massive hole in your leg. I still hear the doctor saying we should call for a priest. It keeps me up at night.”

 

“I didn’t think I would-“

 

“I know, that’s the problem, you think you mean nothing to the people in your life and you never see just how you affect them. How you affect me.” John sighed, tugging Alex in closer. “Now, do you wish to bathe now, or tomorrow morning?” 

 

Alexander turned his head to look out the small window that poke out of the top of the eves. The sun was setting low on the horizon, fat and red as it bled out its last life blood. He’d read so many different things about the setting of the sun, each philosopher referred to it as something different, each had their own interpretation of it. Though right now, Alexander could not remember a single one. His mind drifted to the semi-consciousness he had lain in, he’d thought about many things whilst writhing on what he’d assumed would be his death bed. He’d wondered if he’d be remembered after he died, he wondered how people would think about him far into the future. He decided that, if he died in the war, he’d want to be Achilles; remembered in glory, the whole world knowing and revering his name. But, in the back of his mind, he knew that was not the only reason. _“Mingle our ashes together so that we may be together for eternity.”_

 

“Alexander?” 

 

“Hmmm?” He said, turning back to John.

 

“Would you like to bathe?”

 

“Oh, aye, now would be fine,” he smiled and nodded, watching as John got up and walked to the metal tub. 

 

He drifted in and out of sleep as John trudged up and down the stairs, filling the tub slowly with hot water. When he next woke fully, the tub was full and John had stripped out of his waistcoat and shirt. Candles flickered in the room, casting it in a glowing orange light; the moon had taken the sun’s place as lead in the show. Stars bloomed out of sky as Artemis hunted through the pitch black, forever chasing behind her brother Apollo (or was it the other way around, Alexander never knew). 

 

“Come on, ‘Lex, get in,” John said, pulling him up and helping him out of his clothes. 

 

John watched as his friend sank into the steaming water. Alexander tipped his head back, pink perfect lips parted slightly; his skin flushed from the lingering fever and the heat of the water. His leg was hooked over the side of the tub, blue and black still, though clearing each day. His hair, no longer matted with blood and dirt, tumbled over his shoulders and fell like silk into the water. Alex’s collar bone was clearly visible, sticking up through his skin as he angled his shoulders just so. John’s eyes travelled up the column of Alex’s neck, focussing on where his Adam’s apple bobbed where he swallowed. He shook his head as Alexander moaned, so quietly John almost thought he was dreaming. The water steamed and the room was partially obscured by it. The fire crackled in the grate. The candles flickered. The tree outside the room scraped its branches against the window. And John moved closer to the tub, his shoes making obscenely loud clacking noises on the wood floor. 

 

He knelt behind Alex’s head, pushing his shoulder to make him sit up, he grabbed the jug and tipped steaming water over Alex’s hair; running his fingers through the knots that had gathered through the day. John pretended not hear the breathy moan that escaped Alexander’s open lips as he massaged soap into Alex’s hair. As he worked, he could hear Alexander’s breaths slow and mellow, he could see his chest rising and falling and, if he moved his eyes up a fraction he could see Alex’s nipples; hard as they lingered out of the water in the cool room. John tried to hold off his intake of breath, tried to ignore his feelings, but they would not stave off their attack. He saw everything, he felt everything, crashing upon him in wave upon wave of emotion. Everything he had tried not to feel, not since Kinloch, not since Geneva; yet he could not, one man alone, stop the tide and change the direction of the Earth’s s orbit and just so he could not stop his feelings. He forced his eyes away from his friend’s body and focussed anew on his task. 

 

“Done,” he croaked, moving to rise. 

 

“Don’t.” Alex’s hand grabbed his wrist, holding him in position, before he was tugged back down to his knees. 

 

“Alexander-“ his words faded in to the air, empty, as Alex turned his head; his hand moved from John’s wrist to the back of his head, tangling in his queue, before he brought their mouths together. 

 

It was a moment of purest clarity. Nothing in John’s life could compare to what he felt in that moment. Those impossible seconds. The brush of lips against lips, mingling of breaths and souls, the heady joy of love and trust. Skin against skin. A few seconds of peace in the middle of a war. 

 

_“When I die, mingle our ashes together so that we may be together for all eternity.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, let me know what you thought about the switch in POVs (I usually don't do that an use an omniscient narrator voice but this time I thought fuck it and tried it out). Thanks again, hope you enjoyed it, why not let me know you enjoyed it by leaving kudos or commenting? :D


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